Phantom Limb
by the-caribou-queen
Summary: Light is 100% sure L is still alive. So is Beyond Birthday. It is a shame that he is dead. (pretty much canon up to the end of episode 26, except BB is alive and Near is a girl)
1. death

**November 22nd**

L is dead.

Light saw him die, saw the light seep out of his eyes, felt him go so limp in his arms. He'd checked his pulse. He'd felt that pulse disappear. Light was holding him when he died, and he definitely died. He was confirmed dead seventeen days ago, and he's been buried. He's not coming back. Six feet deep where Light can never reach him. He'll join him there one day, or maybe he'll just dig up the body and keep it for his personal amusement. What could be more humiliating than having your skeleton used as a prop? It would be pointless because L wouldn't be alive to feel humiliated, but it's the principle that counts.

L is dead, definitely dead, so dead it hurts - which is why Light doesn't expect to see a silhouette at the top of the old Task Force headquarters.

The rain is coming down with thick sheets and blurring his vision to the point that even the headlights on cars are distorted, and the colours are simply scattered into the wind. Logically, it should be far too dark for him to see anyone up there, and the angle isn't right either, and nobody would be up there at this time of night, surely? But when he looks again, the figure's still there, leaning over the railings.

His family's expecting him home soon for dinner. He'd told them he was just taking a walk to clear his mind. They had just looked at him with a strange kind of pity in their eyes. They've been doing that a lot these days, but a god doesn't need pity. A god doesn't need a family. A god doesn't need to have dinner.

There's nobody alive to stop him breaking in.

So he breaks in, and while he's picking the little bits of glass out of his hands, his feet are working on their own. There must have been some kind of burglar alarm while the investigation was being held here, but he assumes someone's turned it off in the last few days. Maybe the figure on the roof. It doesn't matter. He keeps walking.

He half-expects to find himself up on the roof when he stops thinking, but instead he stops outside the room they had shared. He's fairly sure everything was cleared out of there, every scrap of DNA that could be used to find out L's identity. He looks in anyway.

It's pure, white, clean; there's not a single trace of L's existence. Just like L would have wanted it. He closes the door quietly and takes a deep breath. The hallway smells of nothing, and the air he's gulping down doesn't even taste slightly of sugar. It tastes wrong and it's choking him. Everything is wrong. L's not here. It's wrong. Everything is wrong and he needs to get out of here because he thinks he might choke on the lump in his throat and wouldn't that be funny, a God dying from choking on his own tears?

It would be funny but it isn't going to happen.

He takes the stairs up to the roof and is flooded by memories before he can open the door. It's been seventeen days. Seventeen days since he died. Light pushes against the door lightly, then collapses against it. He could turn back now. He's sure dinner won't have gotten cold yet.

L's body was cold.

It was cold outside seventeen days ago and the wind was roaring and the rain was screaming in his ears. The weather's even worse today. It's even worse today because L's not here. It's worse every day.

He stares at the stairwell and contemplates throwing himself down it. If he died, would Kira be suspected, or would he be suspected of being Kira? Would it be a fast death, or would he be left there, crumpled, his blood draining away and just slowly fading until someone found the body?

Light stays there for a little while until his legs feel like they're capable of holding him up and his lungs don't feel like burning up and he doesn't feel quite so much like dying. He still feels a lot like dying and he's not sure if that's because death is a major subject in his mind these days or if he genuinely wants to die. If he did die he'd want it to be dignified. Not like this. Not cowering by a door because he's too scared to open it and face the fact that he didn't see L up here and it was just a sleep-starved hallucination.

He's not sure how long it takes him to open the door, but the sky's gone a few shades darker, and constellations are beginning to peek from behind the clouds. The rain's calmed to a drizzle now, though he can still hear the wind howling. He can feel the building shaking slightly. He'd be shaking too if there was that much rain pummelling him.

There's a figure there, leaning over the railings, with a white shirt and blue jeans and bare feet.

Light's going to throw up. His victory is draining out of him. He failed. And L knows – he must know – who tried to kill him. There's no way to argue him out of this one. L's name is in the Death Note. L should be dead. Why isn't he dead? The world is spinning and the moon is too bright to be real and he's shaking and why isn't he dead why isn't he dead _he should be dead_

Light's got a piece of paper folded up in his hand. It isn't part of the Death Note, because L's name is written on it, and if it was part of the Death Note then L would not be just standing there.

L is not dead, and Kira has not won, and the weight of his failure crashes down on him harder than the strongest gusts of wind.

"You're alive." It hurts to speak.

L turns around, regards him with those flat black eyes. He looks alive. Like a ghost, but he's always looked like a ghost, like he might slip away if Light didn't claw him back. "What did you expect me to be?" His voice hasn't changed. Of course it hasn't. It's only been seventeen days.

"Rem killed you."

"Obviously not."

Light reaches out to make sure that L is alive, solid, real. He expects his hand to just go straight through, but instead it makes contact with L's hair. He brushes that hair back. It's real. How is it real, how is anything real? "How is this real?" he says helplessly. "How are you still alive? How can you be real?"

"It doesn't matter." L is staring past him, and Light wants to grab his shoulders and force him to look his god in the eye and tell him why he's alive, because how can he be alive, how can this be possible? "What does matter is that you keep this a secret. Nobody can know about this. Even you weren't supposed to know."

"You want me to lie to other people about you being dead?" Killing thousands of people is okay, because those people deserve it. Lying? That's totally not okay, but he does it anyway. A god's allowed to lie for the good of his subjects. If he tells nobody about L being alive, they'll be more motivated to solve the case than ever, and that could lead to mistakes. "Okay."

"Thank you, Light-kun."

"Anything for a friend, Ryuzaki."

"If I'm your friend, why did you try to kill me?" His eyes are pure black, but he doesn't look angry, he just looks vaguely uninterested in the whole situation. His skin is so pale he looks like a corpse. He should be dead he should be dead _he should be dead_

"I think you'll find it was Rem who tried to kill you."

"So we're still friends?"

"If you still want to be." Light still hasn't got his mind back. He's not sure how rational this is. L is his enemy and he needs to keep him close. Maybe if he keeps him close he can kill him once and for all, get the job finished.

It makes sense in a way. L is justice, Light is justice. Justice doesn't die, and so neither can they. It's an awfully illogical argument but it makes everything so simple that Light can't help but like it.

He hasn't seen Rem for days. She must still be alive if L is. He's going to kill her, if he can figure out how. She deserves death for betraying him. Everyone deserves to die.

"You should go home. Your mother's spent ages cooking dinner for you," L says. He turns around and leans over the railings again.

"And what are you going to do? Watari's dead, he can't sort things out for you any more."

"Did I ever give the impression that I couldn't sort things out for myself?"

"I'm sorry for assuming that." He looks down, hands clasped together, painting a picture of a very apologetic teenage boy. When he looks up L is gone. Perhaps he was never there in the first place.

His hand tightens around the crumpled scrap of paper. L is dead.

* * *

**December 25th**

Near's made a habit of being small. Small, fragile, easy to break, but she's never going to break, which is quite a relief.

She broke her arm once, falling out of a tree where she'd been looking for bird nests. Maybe it wasn't the fall that broke it. Maybe it was the fact B had been playing particularly roughly with her afterwards. It's one of her first memories, lying on her back and plucking feathers from woodpeckers, ignoring her own pain in order to inflict it on the birds. B had taught her that you had to snap their necks after taking out the feathers, or the birds wouldn't feel any of it. He'd tucked a few feathers behind her ear and she'd smeared blood on his nose. It had been June. She had been seven years old. She'd had to wear a cast for six weeks.

She hasn't been broken since, and she doesn't plan to be.

The Rubik's cube she got this morning for Christmas is already broken, because Matt just stepped on it. "We need to leave," he says. He's not got a cigarette in his mouth, which means he must be somewhat serious about this. Matt is hardly ever serious, unless he's defending Mello.

Near stares at the cube snapped into colourful pieces under his foot. She could put it back together so easily, probably without even looking at it, and then solve it with her eyes still closed. She twists a strand of snow-white hair between two fingers. "Why?"

"Mello's out there. He's been out there for weeks. It's – he's – we should find him." He takes out his lighter and flicks it on, studies the flame, flicks it off again. "He might not be safe." On and off. Near knows he only plays with his lighter this much if he's bored or if he's on the edge of breaking down. The tension in his face tells her he isn't bored.

"I don't see why that's our problem," she says emotionlessly, as if she doesn't care. She does, but caring isn't going to change anything. She always knew she was going to win this. She always knew he was going to run. He's going to die soon. Caring is just going to break her, and she doesn't really want to be broken.

Matt growls. He curls his hand into a fist around his lighter. "That crazy murderer guy. Apparently he escaped last week. Mello's in danger."

It's then that Near looks up, her eyes wide and bright. Crazy murderers sound exciting. Leaving here... doesn't quite sound so exciting. She's fully aware she'd die in less than a week without anyone to care for her, and the house does a good job of that. Matt doesn't even seem to take care of himself, so he probably won't be able to keep her alive.

Still. There's only one crazy murderer guy she can think of who might want to kill Mello, and she misses breaking woodpeckers' necks with him. "If you're going, I'm coming with you."

It turns out he's already got a plan, which is good, because Near can't come up with plans quite that quickly, and she has no idea how to get around in the outside world. Here is safe, and so she doesn't leave, but Matt's always disappearing to buy cigarettes. He knows much more about the outside world than she does, and he also knows how to sneak out without Roger noticing straight away.

Matt's already stolen two backpacks; "Only bring important stuff," he tells her, "I have no idea how long we're going to be looking for him."

Near fills her bag with toys. She doesn't bring clothes or toiletries, or even food. Just toys.


	2. chameleon

**January 15th**

When Light comes home he goes straight up to his bedroom. He doesn't say hello to Sayu because she's just committed suicide in her room. Later on, she comes up to his room and he helps her with her homework. She's never been very good with maths, and it's a welcome distraction from L.

* * *

**December 9th**

Beyond's allowed to make one call per week if he's good and docile and doesn't try and injure anyone. If he's not good, he only gets to make one every six weeks, but that's enough, and he can still hurt people. Anyway, he can use those six weeks to plan out what he's going to say. If he doesn't plan it'll be a waste.

He's been in here since September 2005. So far he has made 9 calls, and all of them have been to his darling L. They have such fascinating conversations. It's a shame he never answers the phone. It's okay, though, because Beyond always leaves messages. He's sure L loves the messages the way Beyond hates that he hasn't heard L's voice in years.

He's got today's message all planned out, and he goes through it as the phone rings. It'll ring four times and then it'll say 'please leave a message after the tone' and then he can leave the message. It's going to be a really fun one today. He's going to tell L to have a really nice Christmas, and then talk about that time at Wammy's when it was Christmas, one of their few days off, and Beyond had set fire to the Christmas tree. Maybe he'll sing a carol if the guard hasn't taken the phone off him by that point.

The phone rings two times, and then L answers, but his voice doesn't sound like L.

"Hello?" he says, "who is this?" as if he doesn't recognise the number, but L knows this number, L knows it's him. So if the person answering doesn't recognise the number and they don't know who Beyond is, then it isn't L. If it isn't L then that means L must be in trouble, and that means Beyond has to help him.

"Hello, it's me. Of course it's me." He keeps his voice calm.

"Who's there? How did you get this number?"

"Your friend, your best friend, the best friend you ever had. You gave me the number when you got me put in here. Remember that time I nearly broke your neck when I threw you off the roof?"

'L' pauses. "I remember that. Why are you calling?"

"You're not the real L." Beyond would never throw L off a roof, because that might kill him, and then what would he do? It's quite hard to effectively impersonate a corpse. "You're a fake and that's awful. You're awful, you really are."

It really is awful. How is he meant to help L when he's stuck in here? The answer is, of course, that he can't. Isn't it strange how the guard next to him has such a short lifespan?

* * *

**December 25****th**

Matt seems to know what he's doing, which probably means he doesn't have a clue. Near has far less of a clue and so she has no choice but to follow him through the dark streets. It's cold out here. The material of her pajamas is thin. Matt's warm, so she clings to his arm until he pries her off. "What are you, five?"

"I'm thirteen," she mumbles.

"It's a figure of speech."

"I'm cold."

Matt sighs, taking his cigarette out of his mouth for a moment. "Well - put on a coat."

"I didn't bring a coat."

"Put on some other clothes or something, I dunno. There's a motel round here, pretty cheap rooms, we should be able to stay there for the night. It should be warm enough."

The motel is dirty, and the lobby carries the reek of sweat and smoke. It really isn't the right place for two teenagers, but it's only £20 for a room for the night, and so they have to settle for it because Matt didn't bring enough money for rooms anywhere else. It's better than sleeping in the street. The bed looks like it hasn't been cleaned since 2003 and the shower has suspicious stains in it; at least it's warm and they're free.

They're actually free, and the thought makes Near's heart sink. There's nobody to take care of them, and they're probably going to die in a sleazy motel somewhere near Winchester. She lies back on the bed and takes the Rubik's cube out of her backpack. She wonders if she could solve it without even looking at it.

Matt's in the shower. The sound of the water matches the sound of the rain outside. It's been raining a lot recently, and she had overheard people in the street talking about floods. The walls are damp, and there are spiders lurking in every corner and crack. There are lots of cracks. The heater works, but it works far too well. It's almost feverish in this room. Her skin is boiling but her bones are cold.

She looks down and finds the Rubik's cube solved.

"You brought a toy," Matt says. She turns to face him. He's pulling new clothes on and flicking water from his hair. He's glaring at the cube. "I told you, don't bring anything we won't need, but you just had to bring a toy, didn't you? God, Near, you can't do anything right."

She goes to grab her backpack in case he goes through it and finds that she's brought nothing but toys, but he yanks it away from her before she gets the chance.

"It's full of toys, isn't it?" he spits, his face twisting up in rage. He rips the bag open and tosses each toy out. Near winces as she hears each one hit the ground. There are some in there that she won't be able to put back together as easily as she fixed the Rubik's cube. She doesn't like it when things break.

"Jesus Christ, Near," he hisses. "Are you – you're just fucking with me, aren't you? You've hidden another bag with stuff that will actually be useful, not just toys. Not just toys. Tell me you didn't just bring toys. Tell me you're playing some kind of fucking stupid prank on me."

Near twists a strand of hair around her finger. "I'm not playing a prank on you. I really did just bring toys."

The mattress sinks slightly with added weight, and suddenly Matt looms over her. She's about to say something; then he swings a fist into her eye and talking doesn't really seem like a good idea because it might just make him hit her again. He hits her again anyway, this time over her heart.

"Ow," she says emotionlessly.

He grabs her hair then, pushing her up against the wall, and then he punches her again. It's getting quite boring now. It hurts quite a lot. She doesn't want to satisfy him by expressing that, so she just goes limp and doll-like. He punches her twice more, then tosses her onto the floor like he had done with the toys. She lands on her arm.

The floor is cold and hard and there's a sickening noise when her head makes contact with the wood. She lies there. Motionless. Matt doesn't say anything. She thinks she might be broken. The Rubik's cube had been knocked off the bed, and it had landed next to her; she picks it up and straightens up the edges. "I think I might be concussed," she says quietly. "And I think my arm is broken."

"Oh." Matt's voice is trembling.

"If I get medical attention soon, my arm should fully recover within six weeks."

"I – we don't have six weeks. And we're on the run, you – you can't get medical attention."

Near stares up at the ceiling, which is starting to darken at the edges. "It's lucky that I'm ambidextrous. I think I might lose consciousness. Can you tell me about the plan?"

"We're going to go to the scene of the murder. There should be some kind of clue there."

She nods. "I didn't realise there had been a murder."

"There has been. It's got to be the same guy. They were all cut up the way the ones he killed years back were."

"Okay." She blinks. Her eyelids feel strangely heavy. The world is moving in ways it isn't supposed to. "I don't think I can move. I'm tired. Can you put me in the bed, please?"

He picks her up easily and cradles her like she's a child. She guesses she is, but she's only one year younger than him, only one year more of a child. They're two children running away from home and into the arms of a serial killer, and they're probably going to die, because they're just children. Then he places her gently on the bed. She half expects him to start punching her again. Instead he pulls the cover over her and sits there, stroking her hair, until she loses consciousness.

* * *

**November 25****th**

In the three days since finding out L is still alive, Light has managed to thoroughly convince himself that L is dead. He'd barely slept that day (or any day recently) and so it was probably just a hallucination from sleep deprivation. L had become such a constant that his brain had to summon him up so it could feel like things were normal. He was going mad.

He concluded that it was a mix of all those things and tried not to think about the whole situation again, but right now he has to think about it, because L is crouching on his bed. L is crouching on his bed with his thumb in his mouth and a vacant expression on his face, and L is dead. L is dead and buried and L is definitely not alive.

"Hello, Light," says the dead man, "I thought you would get a bit lonely without me, so I decided to visit you. Why do you look so shocked?"

"I visited your grave earlier."

"Was it fun?"

"You were there."

"I don't remember that." L looks at him curiously, and it makes Light feel sick.

"Of course you don't, because you're dead. Your dead body was there. Under the ground."

"Oh, was it?" L doesn't seem interested in getting an answer. He asks the question quite cheerfully, as if Light is simply commenting on the weather.

Light sits at his desk and leans back. "It was. You're nothing more than a hallucination. Now, I need to work, so could you stop being hallucinated? I need to focus on this, and pretending you're here probably uses up a lot of brain power."

"I would, but I'm not a hallucination. Would you like me to help you with that?"

Nothing makes sense any more. Light is quite sure he's sane, and sane people aren't supposed to hallucinate their rivals offering to help them. However, it makes much less sense if it's real. Firstly L is dead, and secondly L wouldn't be offering to help him study unless he was trying to manipulate him into revealing something about Kira. L can't really help in the Kira investigation if everyone thinks he's dead. "Why are you offering to help me?" he growls.

"Because we're friends, of course."

"Oh, yeah. Of course." Light nods absentmindedly. L needs to leave soon. Light needs to start working on the database of Kira victims or it might look like the task force is doing nothing, and wouldn't it be suspicious if the task force comes to a standstill as soon as Light takes over? He can use the fact he's not on the same genius level as L as an excuse, but it'll still be blatantly obvious that they aren't making progress. At least that way they feel like they're making progress, and that should be enough for a while.

L's arms are suddenly around him, and Light's tempted to push him away, though it's kinda comfortable. His chin rests on the top of Light's head. Light doesn't really mind, he's just a little confused. "Why are you doing that?"

"We're friends and I like touching you."

"Okay." Light rolls his eyes. He never expected L to be good at friendship, but he didn't quite expect his social skills to be this bad. "Just a quick tip, usually you should ask people before touching them."

"Thank you for the tip, Light-kun."

"Also, could you be a bit quieter? I don't want my parents to hear you. They might figure out you're alive."

"Sure."

It's hard to work with L there, silently nuzzling against his neck, but Light does it anyway. Maybe if he doesn't think about the hallucination for a few hours, it will leave him alone and he can be secure in his sanity again.

When he's far too tired to type in any more names, L is still there. Light's heart sinks. He should have disappeared by now if he isn't real, surely? Light turns to face him. "Um," he says, his throat strangely dry, "you need to go. I'm going to bed, and it'd be a bit weird for you to watch me sleep."

"Why would I watch you sleep?" L tilts his head and sticks his thumb in his mouth.

"I don't know, but you shouldn't."

"Okay. Your family is asleep, so I can leave through the front door."

"Well, bye."

"Goodbye, Light Yagami," L says with something that could nearly be a smile. "Have a nice night. You're going to dream about me."

Before Light can ask him what the fuck he meant by that last sentence, he's out the door. The worst thing is that he _does _dream about him.

* * *

**December 26****th**

"Excuse me, sir?" Matt asks, having taken out his cigarette for the occasion, "do you know where Airlie Lane is?"

The man looks at them like he's surprised two kids are trying to find a murder scene. "It en't somewhere kids should be goin', yer know? Yer should be gettin' safe. There's a murderer 'round who's gone right off 'is head, and yer don't wanna get in 'is way."

"Actually," Near pipes up, "we're looking for our parents. They said they were going to Airlie Lane to visit our grandma. She lives down there and they're worried about her." She smiles at him, trying to look cute. Maybe he'll take pity on them if he thinks they're going to be safe. They're not going to be safe as long as B is alive, but that's not something you tell strangers.

He gives them directions to the murder scene, all the while informing them on 'stranger danger' despite being a stranger himself.

"It's weird that it's so close to Wammy's," Matt mutters to Near once they're in such a loud crowd that nobody will hear them.

She doesn't really think it's weird. She nods anyway. "He must be trying to send us a message."

"What makes you think the message is for us?"

"Because L's dead."

Matt's shoulder's sag. "Yeah."

"And also because we're probably the only ones smart enough to understand what he's saying."

He seems a little happier after that.

* * *

**December 11****th**

Her name is Alyssa Reynolds. She has short black hair, ghostly pale skin, a gaunt frame, dark eyes. She is going to die in the next few hours. It will be easy for Beyond to become her.

She's just come from a flight from Heathrow. He follows her from the airport to a small apartment, staying in the shadows. It's small and sparsely furnished; she won't be living here long. She won't be living long either.

"When are you going back to England?" he asks her casually, when she's curled up on the sofa with a mug of coffee.

At first, Alyssa's shocked, all wide eyes and fists and trembling, but she quickly calms herself down, though he can see her eyes flicking to possible escape routes. "Two days – how did you get into my house?" She sounds more annoyed than scared.

Two days. Two days is fine. It won't take him two days to find her passport and make a plan. Nobody will notice if she's missing for two days. He flashes her a grin that he thinks is charming. She probably thinks it's terrifying, which is probably why she starts running.

He catches her before she can get anywhere. "Sing, my angel of music," he says. Her eyes widen for a split second, and then he digs his fingers in and she doesn't actually have eyes any more. It's then that she starts screaming. Singing. It doesn't really matter what it's supposed to sound like, because it sounds just like music to Beyond.


	3. colours

**December 26****th**

Paul Vine's house has been cordoned off by very official-looking police tape, bright yellow-and-black against the misty colours of the rest of the street. Everything's very blurred, except the sharp yellow-and-black edges. The houses, painted a creamy white, and the doors, dawn pink and muted blue, and the roses arranged in the front gardens; all of it says 'you are welcome here'.

The police tape says 'go away, you aren't wanted', and maybe that explains why Matt likes it more than he's liked anything since Mello left. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, not really paying attention to it. "We need to get in there without being seen," he says to Near, who is clinging to his arm. Again. The only reason he's letting her is because if she doesn't hold onto him, she starts walking like she's drunk, and that will draw far too much attention.

"There isn't anyone around to see us," Near points out. The concussion must be having quite an effect on her, because there are people around. There are several police officers prowling around and babbling into radios, and there are odd, disorganized groups of people who are leaving flowers and letters at the house, but they're sprinting away as soon as they've got rid of their offerings, as if it's going to curse them if they linger too long. Death is not contagious. Superstition is.

There's a girl walking up to them with smudged make-up and clothes that don't quite match. She looks like she's been crying. Matt instantly likes her. It's not that she's blonde and she's wearing black leather over her ripped dress. It's not that she reminds him of anyone or anything like that.

There's a bunch of newspapers tucked under her arm. "They're fifty pence each," she says before he can even open his mouth to talk to her.

She isn't wearing lipstick. He thinks he wants to kiss her. "I like you," he tells her.

She looks at him like he's gone mad. He thinks he might have, but he also really wants to kiss her. "Do you want a newspaper or not?"

"Yes," Near answers for him. "I think we have enough money."

Matt nods clumsily, fumbles for coins in his pocket, and manages to scrape together enough money. It's embarrassing how little he's got. Maybe £30 more before he has to resort to theft. "Uh, yeah. We have enough."

The girl frowns at them. "It's okay. If you're that poor you can have it for free."

He insists on paying her, though Near keeps tugging at his sleeve and glaring at him and mumbling about the fact they need to go. As soon as the girl (it turns out her name is Henrietta Fountain and she's an artist and she's sixteen and she lives in a tiny apartment miles from here and she looks just like Mello) manages to extricate herself from the conversation, Matt allows himself to listen to Near.

"Give me the newspaper," is the first thing Near says once they are alone, followed by "We need to find somewhere to read this. Alone."

* * *

**January 1****st**

Misa has a pack of glittery gel pens. There's a code that paints a rainbow over the white pages of the Death Note: red is for arsonists, orange is for rapists, green is for violent assailants, blue is for murderers, and black is for those who dare defy KIra.

She's using purple ink right now. It's the pen she uses when she wants to dare herself to die.

The ink glistens in the bright light of the room. She's chewing strawberry flavoured gum and listening to cheerful pop music. She's writing 'Amane' in the Death Note. How far can she get without dying? It's a rush that makes her hands shake and her head ring, but it's also a strange euphoria that mingles with her blood and tells her she can cheat death. There's one character left to write. Her whole body is buzzing. She might die. She might actually die right here in her pink room, dressed up like a doll, chewing on strawberry flavoured gum and with bland, bubbly Europop blasting into her ears.

When there's just enough written that it's on the thin balance between killing her and not, she slams the Death Note shut and leans back in her chair, breathing heavily. She could die in the next minute. Her heart's beating much faster than it should be. Her heart might stop soon. If she does die it will all be rather romantic. All thirty-six kilograms of her - trembling body and tight nerves and fluttering heart and pretty little useless brain - suddenly becoming thirty-six kilograms of dead meat and bone. She wonders if it will hurt.

Misa checks the clock. If it happens, it's going to happen in ten seconds. She wonders if Light will miss her. She wonders why Light hasn't killed her himself yet. He hates her, it's obvious, and it's also obvious that the only reason he didn't kill her was because Rem would kill him for it.

Rem's dead. Misa misses her. Do humans go to the same place as Shinigami do when they die?

She'll find out in three – two – one – no, she isn't dead. She picks up the red pen and gets back to work.

* * *

**December 26****th**

Near's curled up on Matt's lap, holding the newspaper open with the arm that isn't broken. Matt's watching Henrietta Fountain from the vantage point of a small bench. She's wearing black gloves and a black jacket and her fringe is even across her forehead. He wonders if she likes chocolate.

"It's rude to stare," Near says absentmindedly. "And she's not Mello."

"I know she's not – I – what do you mean?"

She turns another page in the newspaper. "Your fantasies about him –"

"I don't have any fantasies about him!" he says a bit too fast, a bit too defensively.

"Then tell me all the ways Henrietta's different from Mello," Near says with a smirk. She leans back so that her head is nestled in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"Uh – she's a girl, and she's probably not quite as smart, and – oh, and she isn't an orphan, and she goes around selling newspapers so she has enough money to live on her own. And – and she's a girl, so I'm not gay!"

"Right. Isn't it strange how you decided you liked her so quickly after seeing her for the first time?"

Matt really, really wants to push Near off his lap and start beating her up again. Maybe that would shut her up about Mello. He doesn't want to think about Mello until he's safe, because while the murderer's still out there there's a possibility that Mello will die. He can't think about him because if he does, then images sneak into his mind: images of Mello's body split open, images of Mello's bones being used as decorations, images of Mello's blood painting the world red. It's all rather disturbing and all rather tempting and it's making Matt sick to think about this.

It's Near's fault Matt's thinking about this.

There are already bruises blossoming on her porcelain-white skin, in shades of burgundy and indigo and grey. One of her bones is broken. He's given her temporary brain damage. It's still not _enough_. She made him think about Mello, and so she should pay for that. Her body should be split open, her bones should be used as decorations, her blood should paint the world in brilliant crimson.

Her breath is warm against his neck. "Tell me what it says, then," he says, just to distract him from thoughts of wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezing the life out of her. Or kissing her. Either would be bad.

"The victim's name was Paul Vine. He was 50 years old. His body was found in his bedroom. His head was found in the kitchen. He was a journalist. I don't see why he was chosen to be killed, but I can't actually see very clearly at all right now, thanks to the concussion you gave me."

"And anything else interesting?"

"A woman went missing a few days ago after coming back to England. There is a strange article in the newspaper that was apparently Vine's last piece of writing before his murder."

"The font's too small for me to read it," he says with a shrug, hoping Near will believe him. "Can't you just tell me what's strange about it?"

"If you read it you'll understand."

Matt wants to get out his lighter and set the newspaper on fire. Set everything on fire. "Near. I am literally incapable of reading it. Please just tell me."

"The sentences seem rather stilted. It is likely that whoever wrote this – I don't think it was Vine -included some kind of secret message."

"Well, what's the secret message?" He wants to beat it out of her. Or maybe he just wants to beat her up. Probably both. "Surely you've figured it out by now."

He doesn't realise until she pulls herself away that his arms were draped around her. "I don't know," she says blankly, getting to her feet as she speaks. Matt feels like it would be polite to look up but he doesn't.

"I thought you were meant to be smart."

"I have a concussion. Because of you."

Maybe he's supposed to apologize for that. He gets out his lighter and starts flicking it on and off. It helps him focus a little. A cigarette would be better but he doesn't have enough of them. "I'm so- " he starts, then shakes his head, because he isn't sorry. "No, I'm not. Once it's dark we can get in the house and look for anything the killer left behind."

"Beyond Birthday."

"What?" He looks up then. Near's wearing a rather unsettling vacant stare.

"The killer. His name. It's Beyond Birthday."

"That's nice, I guess."

"I feel drowsy. If someone with a concussion develops extreme drowsiness they should be taken to somewhere where they can have proper medical care."

Matt checks his pockets; there's enough money for one more night at the motel, though he'd rather save that in case it snows and they can't sleep outside. "You can sleep on this bench, but you're going to have to be cold, seeing as you didn't bring anything warm."

Near blinks at him. "Can't you give me something warm? My body is not quite able to keep its own temperature constant right now, because of the temporary brain damage. The temporary brain damage that you caused."

Matt sighs and gets out a red-and-black striped sweater from his backpack. "Fine. Put this over you. You can sleep on me if you want. But just until it's dark. When it gets dark we're going to go break into that house."

Near lies down on the bench and gently places her head on Matt's lap. She almost looks cute except that he's fairly sure there's nothing remotely cute behind those glassy eyes. He puts the sweater over her and is quite relieved when she closes her eyes and he doesn't have to look at them any more.

It's still quite early in the evening, but the cold is still seeping into his bones. He almost feels sorry for Near, then reminds himself that he never feels sorry for anyone, except maybe Mello. The sky is a dull grey, and the street is a dull brown, and everything is so dull.

"Can I have my teddy please?" Near asks. Matt flinches like he's been stung, but fishes the teddy out of Near's backpack anyway. It's a disgusting thing, covered in grime and messily sewed up scars, and he doesn't really want to have it anywhere near him.

If he threw it into the road, it would be destroyed before Near could stumble her way over to it. Maybe it would destroy Near too. He tucks it into Near's arms anyway. "Now go to sleep," he orders.

"Please can you stroke my hair, too?" she mumbles into his coat. "Like you did yesterday? It helped."

He does, but it's only so she'll fall asleep. By the time he stops, the sky is already beginning to darken. He lights up a cigarette; the smoke blends in with the hazy clouds.

* * *

**December 1****st**

L's lying on his grave, his arms folded up on his chest, his eyes closed. If Light didn't know better he'd say he was dead.

"Tell me about your childhood," he says. The graveyard is empty; most of the headstones are so crumbled with age visitors wouldn't know who was who anyway. L's is a simple white cross. It doesn't even have his name on.

"You wouldn't be interested."

"I don't care. I want to know." He wants to know everything. He wants to know L's name, he wants to know why he isn't dead, he wants to know why he is the way he is. He wants to know how he can kill him. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Knowing him enough to pull him apart.

L sighs. "I lived in England with my parents until I was sixteen. Then I became a detective. Is it really that interesting?" He resumes his familiar crouch, wiping the grass from the back of his shirt. "Why did you bring me here?"

"It's your grave. I wanted you to see it while you're alive."

"Are you planning on putting me in it?"

"What? No, god, no," he shakes his head, "I don't want to kill you, you're my friend." It's strange. The words feel like they could nearly be true.

* * *

**December 26****th**

Near wakes up to an indigo sky dotted with blurs that might be stars, and the smell of smoke. She clutches her teddy a little closer. "I'm awake," she says quietly. She realises that Matt's hands are around her shoulders, and that she is very cold, and that she can smell smoke.

"Why didn't you wake up sooner?" he growls.

"I was tired. I'm sorry." She sits up and shuffles onto the bench. There are constellations in her eyes that are hard to see past.

"Well, it's nearly six in the evening and it's getting dark. We need to get in the house. You better not fall asleep when you're inside."

Near rubs her eyes. "How are we going to get in? The police will stop us."

He breathes smoke into her face. "Me and Henrietta're going to distract the police, and then you're going to just walk in."

"Henrietta?"

"The newspaper girl. She talked to me when you were asleep."

Near closes her eyes for a moment and attempts to focus. Her head feels like someone's filled it with rocks. She doubts she'd be able to solve even a Rubik's cube in this condition. The night is growing darker but the roads are cast in an orange light by the streetlamps. "What time are we – "

"Now," Matt says, and throws his cigarette down. Near just stares as he puts it out with his boot. "Go on, just run to the house!"

It's pretty impossible for Near to run without collapsing into an inelegant heap, so instead she just walks and hopes she'll stay on her feet long enough to get to the house. Thinking is very hard right now. She recites prime numbers in her head until reaching the door.

The door's unlocked. She assumes the police haven't spotted her yet. The house is incredibly messy and the clutter is getting to her head. There are piles of old, unwashed clothes in every corner, and in the kitchen plates are piled high. It smells like something's rotting, and everything probably is. The only room that seems somewhat clean is the study, and that just smells of blood.

There's a shopping list on the desk next to the laptop. She stuffs it into her shirt. She briefly considers taking the laptop as well, though doesn't because that would be ridiculous. The shopping list is also ridiculous but at least it isn't hard to carry.

She can hear footsteps. It must be Matt. If it isn't Matt she's going to end up arrested. She can't quite remember the law about this but she's sure it will end badly for her in some way.

"This is the police," someone says from not far away in a surprisingly gentle voice, "and you're trespassing on a crime scene, so you're going to have to come out, hmm?"

Near crawls under the desk and starts twirling her hair around her finger in an attempt to make her brain work the way it should be working. The way out should be coming to her so easily. Escaping should be as simple as passing a test.

They would have had a test today. She would have scored 100%.

She can't see the top of the doorway from here. She can see the feet at the bottom. "Hey, kid," the owner of the feet says, "come on out and we'll get you back to your brother, alright? You can't just come running in here, it's a crime scene. You're lucky your brother told us you were in here before you could get hurt!"

Near plays along as the little innocent kid, because that's a part she's been playing most of her life. She feels kinda sick. The whole point of being a detective is to help the law instead of dodge it.

"I got a shopping list," she tells Matt once they're on the way to Henrietta's apartment.

Matt stops walking and presses his hands over his face. "A shopping list," he repeats. "That's all?"

"It's got spilled ink on it. It looks like it was written in a hurry."

"God, Near. You're such an idiot."

She nods.


End file.
